Stained Lips
by Bowles
Summary: Fenrir Greyback punishes one of his pack members but ends up getting more than he bargained for.


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any associated characters.

Takes place at some point from OotP to DH. Or possibly during the First War. You decide.

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They drag her in by her hair. He watches. She's filthy, like all of them are, and at prime breeding age. She's too thin, but who isn't? It's a harsh world.

"Here she is, Papa," says one of the boys holding her. The boy – Matley – has grown strong and fierce over the last few months, and he controls the skank with ease. "Like you asked."

Fenrir doesn't hold back his proud stare. It's good every once in a while to let the pups know he approves of them. "Fine work, boys. I bet she didn't come easy."

"She bit off half of Jack's pinky," says another, York. "Agatha's trying to deal with that right now."

"Stupid tramp." Fenrir swings his leg back and delivers a vicious blow into her ribs. She keels over and coughs, but doesn't look up. "You'll mate who I tell you to mate, and you'll like it. There's been too many incidents like this already, Gwyneth. I think you know what's going to happen now."

She spits a few dots of blood at his feet. "Bite me."

Something snaps in him and he grabs her by her neck and yanks her up until she's semi-standing. "Trust me," he hisses as his mouth hovers over her neck, breath thick and moist, "I will."

He clamps down on her flesh, reveling in the way she flinches against him. He stops when he tastes blood, and he draws back, licking up every last drop with his tongue.

"There are many other things I'd like to do to you," he mutters into the laceration, "but we've already got a nice room all set for you." He draws back and gestures to the pups. "Throw her in there. Don't be gentle."

Matley and York grip her arms as another boy opens the door. They toss her inside the bare windowless room, and she growls before they close the door.

"Reinforce it, Dag," Fenrir tells one of the few men good with a wand. "We don't want her clawing her way out."

Dag flourishes his wand and waves it once or twice. The door glows green for a split-second and Fenrir knows the job is done. "Good. Where are the two scraps?"

"They're being brought over," Dag replies.

"Have they been fed?"

"No, as you ordered."

"Excellent." Fenrir cranes his neck as two floating bodies at a distant end of the hall grow closer. Another magically trained wolf has secured the two and is approaching the room with them. "Constrained, obviously. They look a bit hungry."

It's an understatement, and he knows it. They look ready to kill, and he knows they are.

"Well, men, it looks like you'll finally get a chance to stretch your limbs." He walks up to them close enough that his nose is inches from one of the men's throats. "Inside is another ruffian. A woman. I know how hungry you are, and just rest assured that you will not be fed by us. What you do with her, however, is completely up to you." He smirks. "I mean that in more ways than one."

They understand his meaning, judging by the increased thrashing and squirming. Fenrir nods to the others. "Open it."

Dag momentarily lifts the restraints and the pups swing open the door. The two captives howl as they are thrown into the room by an invisible force, and their screams are barely muted when the boys throw the door shut. Dag reinforces the walls again, and Fenrir sighs.

"Make sure no one gets out." York nods. "Now, I've got other business to deal with. We'll see how they're doing later."

Matley chuckles. Fenrir nearly joins in as he walks away. It's never pleasant to be alone with one hungry werewolf, let alone two murderous starved outcasts. If he could feel sorry for the tramp he would, but sympathy is something that left him years ago. It's hard to kill someone when you feel sorry for the bastard.

And he knows the two men aren't at all sympathetic. But that's the woman's problem now. She's disrespected him before, and she never learned her place. It's her fault, not his own. But even if the fault lay with him, Fenrir wouldn't give a damn.

He thinks he hears a scream and he smiles. There's nothing like the smell of fresh blood in the air.

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The group returns to the house in the woods quietly and stealthily, just as they've been trained to do. It's been a hard night for scouring, but that just means they'll need to move further up the river tomorrow, and no one's worried. Some of the pack shuffles off to the makeshift huts propped up to the sides of the house and another group enters along with Fenrir. He doesn't much like being cooped up, but it's handy, and whenever he feels imprisoned he can just go sleep in the trees.

Dag's writing out something in the dining room when he enters. "What's that?" he asks.

"An account of our forces for the Dark Lord."

There are no further questions. Some things just have to be done.

"Have you checked in on the three condemned?"

"No," Dag says. He sets his quill down and stands up. "I was actually about to do that. Would you like to –"

"Yes, I think it will be interesting to see the results."

He follows Dag up the stairs and to the unlit corridor. Dag mutters an incantation and the torches light themselves, illuminating the torn carpet and peeling wallpaper. The hall is silent as they approach the final room; no sound comes from within. A shadow dances against the wall, but it disappears as soon as it came. Fenrir flicks a spider off his shoulder and turns to Dag.

His voice is hoarse. "Open it."

Dag nods and waves his wand once. This time the door glows blue, and Fenrir waits a moment before approaching it. He places his ear against it, yet still he can hear nothing. He can smell blood, but he fully anticipated that.

"Watch my back," he grunts, reaching down to place his hand on the doorknob. He sniffs once and opens the door.

The room is darker than the corridor, and he can see nothing. He holds a hand up to Dag, and immediately the lone torch in the room is lit.

Fenrir recoils.

The woman grins up at him, blinking once. He can see splatters across the floor, and one bloody leg sticks out from the shadows. But nothing's as disturbing as her expression. Her eyes are alight, face pulled back into a deranged sneer. A thick cut runs across her cheek, but there is blood on the other side of her face, and he doesn't need to smell it to know it's not hers. Her skin is pale, but her lips are stained red, and little bits of chewed material are stuck in between her yellowed teeth.

"Hello, Greyback." She stretches out her neck and licks her lips. "Thanks for dinner."

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End file.
